


Invisible barriers. [Why should it matter?]

by arrestjellyfish



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Confused Sherlock, Falling In Love, Johnlock - Freeform, London Underground, Love Realisation, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Panic Attacks, Panicking Sherlock, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Pining Sherlock, Pre-Season/Series 04, Sherlock in Love, Sort Of, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 18:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14431290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrestjellyfish/pseuds/arrestjellyfish
Summary: He could close his eyes and - if he ignored the cold, hard press of the glass against his cheek - he was leaning against John.  [Close off the other senses, ignore the mechanical clunking and metallic screeching and the smell of steel and the dirty air.] They could have been in the flat. Just on the sofa. Warm and soft, together. [This feels dangerous.]Delirium was a perfectly viable diagnosis. [It certainly feels like it.] [What’s wrong with me?]





	Invisible barriers. [Why should it matter?]

It had been one of those cases that drained every last ounce of energy from everyone involved; Lestrade's hands were permanently rubbing at his forehead, the stress lines appearing to have gotten deeper with each minute of the case being unresolved. Even Sherlock had begrudgingly acknowledged [Internally, of course.] that his temper had become noticeably more volatile than usual, snapping at witnesses and grinding his teeth with every false lead. Just a few hours ago he had been pulling at his own hair so harshly that a few strands were physically torn from his scalp, resulting in John hurriedly forcing Sherlock's hands back down to his sides with a stern and resounding ‘ _Don’t’_. Sherlock might have been annoyed at this move, and a part of him had been ready to lash out over the unwanted contact [Perhaps not entirely unwanted.] but John’s firm grip proved to be quite grounding, in fact, and thankfully the case was solved within a few moments of Sherlock’s euphoric ‘Oh’s and the ensuing deductions.

A hasty final sprint and arrest followed by a couple of hours at the police station filling out mundane, though apparently mandatory, forms meant even more exhaustion for both John and Sherlock. And, though they were currently hurtling back to Baker Street on the Bakerloo line, home really couldn’t come soon enough.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice was gritty and dry, “sit down, mate. You’re going to collapse.”

"You're the old one,” Sherlock counteracted freely.

John’s eyes snapped to Sherlock instantly from where he had been tiredly staring at their feet, a resistant fury burning through the exhausted wash over his irises. [Distinctly more greyish than usual; much less ultramarine.]

“Excuse me?” John challenged.

Sherlock nodded towards the one empty seat without need for taking his gaze away from John. [Those eyebags are almost comical.] “Priority seat for the disabled, elderly, or less able to stand. You tick at least two of those boxes.” With any luck, John hopefully hadn’t noticed how the nod had made Sherlock’s head spin. He wouldn’t admit that sitting down would indeed make him feel a whole lot better right now. [Don’t be weak.] Just thirty minutes to go, and all would be fine, his dignity resolutely in check until he would walk into his room at Baker Street, with a simple bid of ‘good night,’ and silently collapse onto his bed.

“You know full well you’re exaggerating,” John grumbled, clearly not having enough patience or energy to deal with Sherlock’s casual insults. [It’s a wonder he ever did.]

Quite suddenly, as it often does on the underground, the train bolted around a curve in the tunnel, and John instinctively readjusted his footing and tightened his hold on the handrail. Sherlock, unfortunately, hadn’t been so ready - admittedly his mind appeared to be quite slowed at the moment - as he stumbled into John with the rattling force of the carriage.

“Right,” John asserted, not moving his hands from where he’d just caught Sherlock [Trust John’s ever impressive reflexes.] and steered him forcefully backwards into the free seat, Sherlock not having the energy or balance to counteract the maneuver. He huffed softly and rolled his eyes, not daring to admit that his legs were distinctly less pained and shaky now that he was sitting down.

“Completely unnecessary.” [Barely convincing.]

“Shut it, Bambi,” John chuckled, clearly not having the decency to contain his self-satisfied smirk. Nor did the tourists [Who would’ve done well to mind their own businesses.] beside him appear to want to hide their amused giggles and glances.

Several moments and a single tube stop passed before anything else of note happened - though it definitely would. Just the ordinary clunking of the carriage, the tight air, the warm body heat of dozens of passengers crammed together in a metal pod underground. There were plenty of times where Sherlock would find this atmosphere unbearably stifling - too many people and deductions for him to feel at ease - and as such always opted to take a taxi instead. This evening, however, he barely had the mental capacity to recite the periodic table up to Barium [How infantile!], let alone deduce every one of his fellow passengers’ most recent meals and family dramas. The tube was fine, just for that day.

A gruff sigh to his right informed Sherlock of John’s current discomfort. It seemed the fast chase earlier and the lack of rest had taken a toll on John’s bad leg. [Unsurprising. It had been acting up recently due to the whole fiasco with Mary.]

Sherlock began to rise, “John-”

“You’re too kind,” John half-joked, already stanced to push Sherlock back down into his seat. [Intuitive.] “It won’t help my leg if I have to haul you over my shoulder the rest of the way,” John raised his eyebrows pointedly as he leant against the opposite side of the glass barrier next to Sherlock’s seat. Bending down slightly [Highly counteractive. That won’t help his leg at all.] he gave Sherlock’s knee a quick pat, adding a gentle, reassuring “Just stay put, I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock’s eyes rested on his knee, his lips firmly shut. He pouted a little and shrugged, pulling his eyes away from his trousers and tilting his head the slightest bit away from John to hide the sudden warmth that had blossomed on his cheeks. [Stupid, stupid.] Could he not control himself? It was a mere pat, friends did that all the time. _They_ did that all the time. [Lie.] Well, John did. Sherlock hadn’t yet found a way to make it seem casual enough so as not to arouse suspicion. [How does John do it? _Why_ does John do it?]

Sherlock then saw that a strange old woman was staring at him. [How uncomfortable.] He frowned and angled his body away from her, directing his gaze back in John’s direction. John was staring too. [Not so bad. Normal. Pleasant.] He gave Sherlock a small, friendly smile [Comforting? Perhaps just polite.] Sherlock attempted to return the gesture. [No, stupid. We’re never polite.]

“Alright?”

Sherlock frowned at the question.

“You’re looking a bit peaky,” John explained.

“Fine,” Sherlock assured immediately. [Hot. Tired. Confused. Doesn’t matter.]

John shook his head lightly with a small quirk of the lips [Am I being funny?] and let his body weight rest completely against the glass panel between them, capturing Sherlock’s attention immediately.

Suddenly everything stopped. [Interesting.] He hadn’t considered the significance of transparent barriers before. [What use could it serve?] But now it made all the difference in the world. He could feel it. [Impossible.] He could somehow feel John pressing up against him, where Sherlock’s arm was pressing against the opposite surface of the invisible barrier. It was as if they were touching. [Feel it.]

Sherlock pressed up entirely against the glass. [This feels new.] He didn’t care if he looked ridiculous - it was natural enough to look like he was simply slumping in exhaustion. His heart fluttered and he got the strangest rush. [Adrenaline? Surely not dopamine.] He could close his eyes and - if he ignored the cold, hard press of the glass against his cheek - he was leaning against John. [Close off the other senses, ignore the mechanical clunking and metallic screeching and the smell of steel and the dirty air.] They could have been in the flat. Just on the sofa. Warm and soft, together. [This feels dangerous.]

He knew the science of cuddling; the amount of skin contact being directly proportional to the body’s dopamine production, and hence the overall happiness of the subjects. He’d never cuddled anyone before, at least not past his toddler years. [I’ve always wondered.]

Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced to his side, seeing John with his head dropped and chin doubled [Tripled.] as he rested his jaw against his chest. [So close.] Sherlock hadn’t been able to study John this closely before, not when he was so relaxed. Not unless Sherlock had inadvertently [Sometimes willingly.] gotten a bit too caught up in his deductions and forgotten the laws of personal space, stepping within centimetres of John’s face. John would promptly, though not harshly, push him back at these moments, but now Sherlock could observe all he wanted.

He didn’t want to, though. He wasn’t observing or studying or analysing. [What’s going on?] He closed his eyes again and breathed, his exhale coming out as a strange, contented bubble of a sigh. He wasn’t studying, he was relaxing. [So relaxing.] He couldn’t stop imagining how much warmer, comfier [Lovelier.] this would feel if he could actually feel John’s body. His warmth and his pulse softly pumping against Sherlock’s cheek, and the soft ponch of belly fat pressing against his head with John’s every inhale. Even being able to faintly hear John's inner body workings echoing in his ear. A living pillow. Such a strange concept, possibly even morbid. [But it feels incredible. Would feel incredible.]

More moments and stations passed, no thoughts or deductions. Just content. After some time, Sherlock found himself wanting even more. [This is definitely dangerous.] Craving the gentle carding of short, strong fingers through his curls, scratching lightly at his scalp, twirling tendrils between calloused fingertips. He dropped his hand from his lap to rest on the seat, taking a shallow breath when he felt a warm, soft touch on his little finger. [The softest.] Their fingers were touching, resting against each other. [Just resting.] Neither of them were moving. [Why would we? It doesn’t mean anything.] It meant nothing. [Nothing, of course.] [This is incredible.] He thought he could have stayed there forever.

 _‘This station is Baker Street.’_ The mechanical voice was like a bucket of freezing water being poured over Sherlock’s head. _‘Change for the Jubilee, Metropolitan, Circle, and Hammersmith and City lines. Exit here for Madam Tussaud’s.’_

Panic struck. [No.] It couldn’t end yet. He was just getting comfortable, just enjoying himself. He was only just starting to breathe properly. [Can’t breathe.] Just a bit longer. [Not yet.] Another stop. [Just one more.] One more. Just one more stop. [Please.]

“Sherlock?” John ducked down into Sherlock’s line of sight looking very concerned. [Am I talking aloud?] “Sherlock, this is our stop,” he responded clearly and calmly [Doctorly.]

“Come on,” John gently led him off of the train, Sherlock not even recalling how or when he had risen from his seat. Briefly, John refused help from another concerned passenger, the old woman who had been staring, to Sherlock’s relief. John’s help was enough. [It always is.] Once on the platform, virtually abandoned at this time of night, John placed a firm hand on Sherlock’s waist. [He’s being supportive.] It made Sherlock’s head spin. [He isn’t helping.]

“Let’s just get home and have a nice cup of tea, alright? I’ll text Mrs Hudson to pop the kettle on.”

They started walking along the platform, slowly but surely, propelled by John’s reassuring hold.

“I’m sure she’ll even surrender a few chocolate digestives once I tell her you’re delirious,” John mumbled, mostly to himself, holding Sherlock closer as they approached the steps. [Does he really need to?]

Sherlock just nodded and allowed himself to be guided up the steps of the tube station. Delirium was a perfectly viable diagnosis. [It certainly feels like it.] [What’s wrong with me?]

He stopped walking and looked over to John for some much needed reassurance. John’s eyes sparkled with a smile. Sherlock swallowed around a lump in his throat. [I know what’s wrong with me.] John continued helping Sherlock up the steps. [He’s so kind. Kind and clever and beautiful.]

Sherlock felt more ready to collapse than he had all day. [I’m scared.]

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this short fic, and thank you for reading! I really tried to capture the right amount of anxiety and confusion for this to be a realistic study of Sherlock realising he is in love. The square brackets are meant to be his input to the story, so I also hope I got his voice right. Please leave Kudos if you enjoyed it, and comment if you want to add anything!
> 
> Be sure to follow me on tumblr for updates, requests for inspiration/prompts, and general memes: [dickeddowndetective](http://dickeddowndetective.tumblr.com/)


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